


The True Author

by chrisqzs



Category: Ranger's Apprentice - John Flanagan
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-02
Updated: 2020-07-02
Packaged: 2021-03-05 03:41:12
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 877
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25027891
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/chrisqzs/pseuds/chrisqzs
Summary: George paced back and forth in the hallway of the castle, trying to think of the right words. How foolish he thought, I’ve spoken to him multiple times in my life I should be calmer than this; but he was nervous, nevertheless. It was easier with Will and Horace. They were willing and, dare he say, excited to share their stories with him. This was different, though. He didn’t really know the man, not really.
Comments: 4
Kudos: 20





	The True Author

George paced back and forth in the hallway of the castle, trying to think of the right words. _How foolish_ he thought, _I’ve spoken to him multiple times in my life I should be calmer than this_ ; but he was nervous, nevertheless. It was easier with Will and Horace. They were willing and, dare he say, excited to share their stories with him. This was different, though. He didn’t really know the man, not really.

Halt wasn’t expecting a visitor. He heard the soft footsteps outside his door approach and stop, then pace back and forth. Silently, he stood up and unsheathed his knives. Maybe an overreaction, he knew, but better safe than sorry. The footsteps stopped in front of his door and as he approached, he heard a quiet knock. He paused for just a moment, then decided to re-sheath his knives, for what malefactor would knock first. Halt walked to the door and opened it.

It was that boy- what was his name again? – from Nihon-Ja. Though not a boy any longer (though to be fair, he wasn’t a boy then), the man standing in front of him was a gangly mess of limbs with hints of graying hair and ink-stained hands. Halt raised an eyebrow.

“George, sir,” he said, his voice wavering for just a moment. “We’ve met before. I’m a friend of Will’s – well, actually, we grew up together and –“

Halt held up a hand to silence George, “come on in.”

The scribe followed the retired Ranger into his modest castle quarters. The Ranger gestured to a seat next to the fire and George sat down.

Halt sat down in his own armchair and sighed, “so, what brings you here?”

“Well, sir – “

“Halt.”

“Halt. Well, Halt,” George said before taking a breath and continuing, “I came here to ask you if youd like to share your stories with me?”

“My… Stories,” Halt asked, a little confused.

“Yes, Halt. I’ve been collecting stories from Will and Horace and I was just hoping I could collect some of your stories.” George reached into his bag and pulled out a small stack of papers – a few short stories Will had shared with him earlier that year when the five ward kids got together for their annual reunion. He handed them to Halt, who looked them over, though not really reading the words.

“You’ve been collecting stories,” Halt asked blankly. George nodded.

“Nothing too secret, mind you. I know you Rangers have your secrets,” George assured him, “and no one would read them. Not without your permission, of course.”

Halt nodded, “and what makes you think I have stories to tell?”

“Well, Will seems to think so.”

“Does he now,” Halt said, in a bit of disbelief. George nodded.

“He does. Every time I see him he asks if I’ve talked to you yet.” George took a breath and watched the Ranger look at the papers in his hand, brow furrowed. “I can let you think about it, if you’d like.”

“I think that would be best. I can give you my answer tomorrow,” he said, handing the scribe back his papers. George shook his head, though.

“Keep them, at least until tomorrow. Read them, if you’d like. Will told me I could share those with you.” George stood up and headed to the door, before he left he turned around to face Halt again. “Think about it, please.”

“I will.”

And with that, the not-so-young scribe left Halt’s small quarters.

The retired Ranger sighed and read through the stories in his hands, smiling the whole way through. And when he finished reading the stack he went back and re-read it. He sighed, thinking about the stories he could tell – and the stories he couldn’t. He thought of Crowley – his oldest and closest friend. The man he shared the majority of his life with and who saved his life too many times to count. He was dead now, and the only one that really knew him, aside from Pauline, was himself. He thought about whether it was a good thing or not. He also thought of the history he was witness to, and how little it’s remembered. Most everyone was gone now – Crowley, Duncan, Arald, David, and too many more to count. Hells, even Halt knew that his own time was coming soon. It was only a matter of time before all the stories they had were gone.

Halt didn’t get much sleep that night.

\-----

The sun was low in the sky when George returned to Halt’s quarters the next day.

“Coffee?” Halt asked.

“Yes please, sir – I mean – Halt,” George said, and he happily accepted the warm drink despite the late hour. Halt poured himself his own cup of coffee and, after adding a spoonful of honey, he sat down at his table, gesturing to the empty chair opposite him. George sat down.

“What sort of stories do you want,” Halt asked after a brief moment of silence.

“Anything, really,” said George. “Whatever you feel like telling.”

“Well,” Halt said, smiling, “there was this one time… A long time ago… I had just come to Araluen from Hibernia you see, and I was getting lunch in this small inn when a red headed Ranger walked in…”


End file.
